


The spaces in between

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Shenanigans, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: Love doesn't happen all at once; it grows in those spaces between rough calls and adrenaline rushes.Or, Buck and Eddie get curiously domestic, pine a little, and ultimately - with sweetness and light - get together.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Comments: 30
Kudos: 268





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday gift for Bryan, who got blessed by the man himself, Oliver Stark! Happy birthday bb.

“Move over,” Buck cries, leaping unceremoniously onto Eddie’s bed at an hour that Eddie usually likes to call _too early for dumb fuck shenanigans._

Eddie cracks an eye open, stares blearily at the alarm clock on his bedside table. The numbers read 7:01am, and since it’s a weekend following a 48 hour shift, yeah. Yeah, this is definitely Satan’s hour.

“No,” he tells Buck crossly. “And it wouldn’t matter if I moved or not. You’re just gonna lay down _on_ me.”

Buck makes a noise of agreement from where he’s starfished across Eddie’s legs already. “It’s just too comfy, man,” he grins, and Eddie grumbles fondly, kicking his legs half-heartedly enough that Buck just doubles down on his weight and pins him down.

“You’re like a giant golden retriever,” Eddie says, trying to disguise the fondness in his voice. “The pet Christopher wanted but never had.”

“Woof,” Buck says. “Also, don’t rule out pets completely because when I was a kid I once went to a sleepaway camp and painted a rock that became my, like, best friend. So, pet rocks. A thing.”

Eddie laughs and stretches, careful not to dislodge Buck, who is wriggling his way up Eddie’s duvet-covered legs slowly. Buck ends up resting his cheek against his folded arms at Eddie’s waist, eyes closed and smile content.

“Pet rocks,” Eddie muses out loud. He reaches down to ruffle Buck’s hair good-naturedly. “I guess it could work, no noise and no clean up. Good idea, man.”

“I’m a genius,” Buck mutters, leaning into Eddie’s touch. “Obviously.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he echoes. “Christopher up, yet?” He scritches at Buck’s scalp, slipping his fingers through the soft curls at his crown. 

Buck makes a humming sound, happy. 

“Yep,” he says. “Got him set up with cartoons and a pancake with chocolate syrup smilies, so he’s happy for now. But he’s gonna want cuddle time in an hour tops.”

Eddie grins. “Chocolate syrup smilies mean cuddle time is gonna get sticky,” he warns, trailing his fingers from Buck’s hair to the bare nape of his neck, where he is sun-pinkened and warm. 

It’s new, how Eddie’s hands find themselves tracing a path over Buck’s skin these days, like he’s learning a map of uncharted territory. But since Christmas, there’s been this gravity to Buck’s body next to his, something that makes Eddie greedy to reach out and acknowledge the solidity and warmth of this person filling space Eddie never knew was empty before. To grasp, hold onto, and give shape to someone who makes the corners of Eddie’s heart feel - bruised and soft, all at the same time.

It’s new, but good. Exhilarating in the way a rollercoaster is, free-falling while strapped in.

“Stickier the better,” Buck yawns. “Means Christopher is having fun, like a little kid should.”

There is fierce affection beneath Buck’s words, and it fills Eddie’s heart even more, makes it ache with how grateful he is to have someone else see his child, _love_ his child.

Eddie’s fingers curl, clasp Buck’s nape gently.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Thanks.”

Buck opens one eye, slitted and speculative. “You don’t have thank me,” he says. “Not ever, Eddie. Especially not when it means I get to spend time with the cutest kid in the universe.” He ducks his head a little. “And you, too, I guess.”

Eddie bites his lip to keep from smiling too big. “Oh, you guess?” he asks, pretending to be indignant. “See if you get any cuddles from _me,_ then, since I’m chopped liver. Damn.”

Buck is about to respond when Christopher calls out for them from the living room.

“Buck! Daddy! Come on, you’re missing Avengers Assemble!”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You heard him,” he says gravely. “Can’t miss Captain America do...whatever Captain America does.”

“Hater,” Buck grumbles. “One of these days we’re gonna watch all of the movies in a row, I swear, and you won’t be able to talk shit about Cap anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah, not like this is about your man-crush on Chris Evans, or anything—“

“He’s got _amazing bone structure_!”

In a tangle of limbs and muttered expletives and choked laughter, they both manage to get upright and stumble out of the bedroom in one piece, more or less.

They trudge into the living room and Eddie plants a kiss on Christopher’s forehead, gives a sleepy “Morning mi hijo,” before turning to the kitchen. He expects Buck to join Christopher on the couch, but instead, Buck grabs Eddie by the elbow and reels him in, wraps him in a hug that feels like a whole-body embrace. Next to them, Christopher giggles until Buck wraps his arm around Christopher, too, and they’re basically a pile of tangled limbs and muffled laughter.

“You’re not chopped liver,” Buck informs Eddie seriously when they part, eyes dancing. “And I get hugs from _both_ the Diaz boys or I don’t get ‘em at all, okay?”

“Yeah!” Christopher cheers, and snuggles closer to Buck, who drops a cheek to Christopher’s hair in a tender gesture that melts Eddie’s insides.

“Coffee,” he says hastily, and scrambles back up to go to the kitchen, lest he do something stupid and revealing, like—

Well, no need to dwell on it.

Buck only grins, like he knows what Eddie’s thinking, and it’s a soft grin, a kind grin. A patient one.

“Hey Eddie,” he says, head cocked. “I’m really happy I’m here.”

Eddie clears his throat around the knot suddenly there, the overwhelming emotion that he’s still not great at verbalizing. The unsaid things linger there, like _Thanks for giving up your bachelor lifestyle to basically coparent your best friend’s kid_ , or _You’re the only thing besides my son that makes me smile anymore,_ or _I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around, and I’m scared to death of chasing you away._

But Eddie can’t make his mouth form the words. Too much to lose. So instead, he smiles, and says:

“Me too, Buck. Me too.”

And when they’re sitting on the couch later, sipping hot coffee and eating chocolate pancakes and watching cartoons with Christopher between them, their legs sprawled out and ankles touching, Eddie can almost convince himself it’s enough. 


	2. Chapter 2

Buck can cook.

Buck can do a lot of things, like rappel down skyscrapers and make a really good gin martini and deadlift double his body weight (a 405 PR which doesn’t do things to Eddie’s insides, no way) but the best thing is —

He can cook. Like really, really cook.

And not that Carla isn’t an amazing cook — her food puts everyone to shame — it’s just that Eddie always feels bad about asking for meal help when there’s two able-bodied adults around at home these days.

(At home. Still makes Eddie shiver, getting to say that about Buck being _here_.)

So they have rotating kitchen schedules, and when it’s Eddie’s turn, it’s simple Tex-Mex or cheeseburgers or if he’s feeling fancy, paninis with that press that his sister gave him last birthday.

But when it’s Buck’s turn, it’s actual home-cooked meal caliber; there’s baked macaroni and cheese using a secret recipe Athena gifted him, or a hearty beef stew with vegetables that taste freshly-farmed, or a chicken marsala dish that has even Christopher, a notoriously picky eater, asking for seconds.

It’s not just that the food is well-made, it’s that making it is a labor of love.

Eddie comes home on nights when they don’t share shifts to find Buck in the kitchen with Christopher overseeing, a sous chef whose sole purpose is to put the light in Buck’s eyes when he spins over for an errant carrot or a specific utensil. There is music playing, something soft and jazzy, and the apartment smells so good that Eddie just stands in the threshold, clutching his bag, breathing in the scent of dinner and laundry and his _boys_.

Buck turns to him and says, “Welcome back, stranger. Get a plate,” and there’s such happiness in his face that it feels like the whole apartment is full to the brim with something Eddie can’t name because he’s never quite felt it before but he thinks it may be —

Peace.

And on days when they do both have long shifts together and Christopher has spent more than 24 hours with Carla or Abuela, Buck insists on coming over and making a late dinner for Eddie or an early breakfast for them all. Eddie always offers up a token protest, but as easy as breathing, Buck throws his bag in Eddie’s truck and climbs in alongside him. 

There’s a rhythm to their time together in the kitchen, when it’s just the two of them. Buck makes idle chatter and sends teasing grins Eddie’s way, and Eddie drinks in the comfort of having Buck there, without the pressure or preemptive loneliness of knowing Buck has to leave. By now, he’s got a change of clothes at Eddie’s place, and a couch that he’s beaten into submission so it’s comfortable, and there’s even a toothbrush that dangles alongside Eddie’s and Christopher’s in the bathroom. 

Whatever else happens, what stays true is this: Buck doesn’t leave. It’s more important to Eddie than he wants it to be.

And so they cook whatever meal it is, whether in the bleary light of early morning or the hushed blue glow of late night. Buck whispers “Pass the salt,” and Eddie whispers, “Christ, how is your blood pressure not through the roof,” and they laugh, and their hands brush, their bodies align from shoulder to hip, and it all feels so good, so lived-in, that Eddie never wants to go to bed.

There’s a night after they’ve worked a double full of physically punishing calls and little sleep, and Eddie’s so tired he can barely see straight, but he also hasn’t eaten in 24 hours. Buck pushes him gently with a palm at the small of his back, follows him into his truck and drives him home, drags them both into the house and into the kitchen without a word. When he turns on the stove, he only asks, “Cheese or no cheese?”and Eddie knows it’s omelettes, his favorite comfort food.

In the dark, over a pan of frying onions, the smell of garlic and pepper in the air, Eddie turns to Buck and says, “You’re good at taking care of people, man.”

What he means is, _I’ve never in my life let anyone else help me the way you do, and I don’t know what to do with that._

But his blood is moving slow like syrup through his veins, and his voice is too low and honeyed to speak the truth. He leans in, closer and closer, till the only thing propping him up is his hand on the counter.

Buck smiles, exhaustion flirting with the corners of his mouth, and slides his arms around Eddie’s waist, bringing him close for a hug that’s not quite a hug — almost swaying in place, Eddie’s cheek pillowed against Buck’s shoulder.

“‘M glad you _let_ me take care of your stubborn ass,” Buck says gently, and gives a squeeze at Eddie’s waist before slowly untangling from him. “Hold on, the onions are burning.”

Eddie slumps further, gives a great big yawn. “Can we make some extra for Christopher in the morning? Pepa is bringing him by for me and he loves your omelettes.”

Buck’s shoulders soften, and his voice is light when he says, “You know I always double whatever recipe I make. No—“

“—leaving a Diaz boy behind, I know,” Eddie finishes, sleepy, languid. He slumps further, smushes his cheek against Buck’s shoulder again.

“Okay, Sleeping Beauty,” Buck snickers. “I’m making you a plate before you fall face first into the pan. You’re too pretty to go out that way.”

Eddie snorts as Buck carefully turns off the stove and then manhandles him to the kitchen table.

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, preening. He tries to flex, but mostly his elbow slips on the table and he ends up burying his face in his arms.

Buck laughs, a rough-edge to it due to tiredness, something raw that makes Eddie shiver. He places a plate on the table, the aroma making Eddie’s mouth water, and then places his hand on Eddie’s back, rubbing a slow, soothing circle.

“You _know_ you are,” he says. “Now eat up, because I’m gonna own you on that bench press on Monday if you don’t.”

Eddie mumbles something like _you wish_ before shoveling a forkful of omelette into his mouth. 

“Buck,” Eddie says, eyes closed in bliss as he fucking devours the cheesy goodness. “I love you.”

Buck laughs like it’s a joke, and maybe it is a little. But as Eddie leans back, catches Buck’s hand in his and squeezes, fingers curling around Buck’s as intimate as a kiss...

He thinks that maybe it isn’t, too.


	3. Chapter 3

“Let’s go out.”

Eddie’s heart stops when he hears that, but only because his head goes to funny, stupid places. 

Buck’s face is hopeful, bag swinging at his side as they walk out of the firehouse. It’s the end of a long shift, but the sun is still out, which always makes things feel surreal until Eddie gets a nap and a meal in him.

“Out where,” he asks warily.

Buck claps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, uses it to tug him close and tuck him into Buck’s side. Not many people can make Eddie feel smaller, but with an extra two inches of height and a huge personality, Buck manages.

It’s...nice, though. Eddie tries not to be too obvious about burrowing a little closer.

“So, I realized it’s been months since we went to that bar near Maddie’s,” Buck says. “You know the one with Tecate & Taco Tuesday?”

Eddie groans. “I hate that bar,” he grumps. “It’s tacky, man.”

Buck grins. “Yeah, but it’s really cheap and the tacos are pretty good, and Chris is going to that birthday sleepover tonight so we can get sloshed if we want. Aw, Eddie, come on!” 

And of course, Buck’s got his cajoling voice on, the one that could convince anyone of anything. It’s warm and deep and sounds like it’s laughing at the world, and Eddie sighs, hopelessly ensnared.

“One day I’m taking you back to Texas so you can have tacos the real way,” he says. “Not the L.A. way, which is a crime against God.”

“Yeah yeah, and you’re a good boy who _never_ takes the lord’s name in vain, so crimes against God are a big deal to you, obviously.”

Buck sounds wry but there’s a certain intimacy that underscores his gentle ribbing. He might make fun of Eddie’s extremely Catholic upbringing but what he’s saying is _I know you, Eddie Diaz._

And Eddie might roll his eyes but what he’s saying is, _I’m glad you’re the one who does, Evan Buckley._

“Okay, yeah,” Eddie says, acquiescing, “We’ll go to the bar and have the bland tacos and a few beers. But we’re going to have to get Chris ready for this sleepover first, and I’m telling you, he’s angling to take _all_ his Legos.”

Buck’s face softens, his grin turning into something that illuminates him from within, a glow like the sun on the water at dawn.

“I can handle it,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Another day, another instance that Buck’s car gets left at the station so they can ride in Eddie’s truck instead, but it’s worth it to swing by Christopher’s school to pick him up together, create another memory for Eddie to slot away when the rage or the sorrow start growing in his chest, a balm and benediction for his self-loathing or sadness: 

Buck, swinging Christopher up in the air, framed by the endless blue sky, standing tall and strong and fearless, meeting Christopher’s whole-body shrieks of laughter with a blinding grin of his own.

His boys, Eddie thinks helplessly. His _boys_. 

“Daddy,” Christopher says in the car, breathless and happy, “My friends think Buck is a superhero.”

Eddie bites a lip to keep from smiling. “Buck, huh?” he says. “I guess I could buy that. What’s his superpower?”

Christopher thinks for a minute. “His heart,” he finally decides. “It’s giant. It helps him save people even when it’s scary, like he saved me.”

Eddie’s own heart expands at that, so much that he almost can’t speak. Without knowing he’s going to do it, he drops his hand from the steering wheel on top of Buck’s, just resting there.

Buck’s fingers flex, but otherwise, he’s strangely still, face open and stunned. There’s a hint of shyness and a hint of pride in the mobile corners of his expression, but mostly wonder and awe.

“Thanks, bud,” Buck says quietly, after a moment. “But if I’m a superhero, so is your dad.” He turns in his seat, looking at Christopher seriously. “And so are you.”

Christopher nods, adjusting his glasses. “Yup,” he says. “A superhero family.”

And then he looks out the window, grinning to himself, completely unaware of the devastation that lays waste to Eddie’s heart, the simple concussive power of that phrase, grabbing the breath from Eddie’s body.

“Yeah buddy,” Eddie says, when he can move air through his lungs again. Buck’s fingers flex once more beneath Eddie’s. “Like a superhero family.”

When they get back to the house, as Eddie sits in the driver’s seat still feeling winded, Buck ushers Christopher out of the car and through the door, little elementary school backpack hanging from his broad bicep in a way that absolutely does _not_ make Eddie’s stomach clench with — _yearning_ —

The thing is: family is all Eddie wants. All he’s ever wanted. And with Buck, he doesn’t have to fight for it, claw to keep it, beg it to happen. 

It...just does.

So maybe this is more than friendship. Maybe this is deeper than watching each other’s backs. Maybe this is something worth growing, as terrifying as it might be.

Eddie touches his chest, rubs at the ache beneath his sternum, the way his skin feels too tight to contain the well of emotion rising up in him.

He wants to keep this. 

_Please,_ he prays, stepping over the threshold into his home, watching Buck duck his head close to Christopher as they begin Christopher’s homework, twins in sandy curls and earnestness.

 _Please,_ he prays, when Buck helps Christopher pack all his Legos into a giant duffel bag in preparation for the sleepover, responding to Eddie’s protests with an indulgent headlock and hair ruffle and unabashed laughter.

 _Please,_ he prays, as they bundle Christoper into his friend’s mother’s car and stand together to wave a cheery goodbye, Buck beaming proudly, his arm a warm circle of familiarity around Eddie’s shoulders. 

_Please,_ he prays, when they’re at the bar much later, when Buck is eating a taco messily and grinning at Eddie with cilantro in his teeth, when Buck takes a swig of Tecate and his throat works in long pulls, when their knees touch under the table, when Buck’s mouth, beer-cold but sweet, presses a sloppy kiss on the high plane of Eddie’s cheek and his voice takes on that frayed-edge sincerity so singular to him:

“You really are a fucking superhero, Eddie,” he says, and what the hell is Eddie supposed to do with this but pray some more?

 _Please let me keep this,_ he pleads, ducking his head against Buck’s shoulder, breathing him in, just once, just till tomorrow when his head is clearer and he’s stronger.

_Let us keep this._   
  



End file.
